


The Gang Microcheats

by Blissymbolics, skeilig



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Comedy, Dialogue Heavy, Eddie’s emotionally invested sidepiece, M/M, Multi, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier’s Infidelity Kink, Richie doesn’t know what microcheating means, Stan has to walk away for a minute, everyone’s a scumbag, the gang slut-shames Eddie, this is a one act play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25963987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: “Eddie Kaspbrak, repeat after me: ‘I am a sloppy bitch.’”Eddie sighs. “I am a sloppy bitch.”“Good. Now that we’ve got that sorted, let’s break up with your wife and boyfriend.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 148
Kudos: 581





	The Gang Microcheats

Richie tiptoes down the stairs, his footsteps nearly silent against the ornamental carpet. He creeps through the lobby and peeks into the parlor, smiling in relief when he sees Eddie sitting at the bar with an open bottle of wine. He’s staring down at a yellow legal pad, his face buried in his hands. The soft light of the chandelier gives the whole scene the air of some morbid post-impressionist painting.

“Everything okay down here?” Richie asks, causing Eddie to jolt so hard he almost elbows the wine off the bar top.

“Shit, wear a fucking bell,” Eddie replies, dramatically clutching his chest.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, sorry, I’m good. Sorry for sneaking out like that.” He smiles guiltily.

“Are you kidding? This is part of the experience.” Richie sidles up next to him at the bar and glances down at the blank notepad that Eddie probably snatched from behind the front desk.

They were blissfully huddled in bed just half-an-hour ago. Richie drifted off shortly after they finished taking care of business, but when he opened his eyes Eddie was gone. There was no light coming from the bathroom, and his clothes were missing from the floor. Richie quickly began redressing, and when he slipped on a t-shirt that was a bit too tight around the armpits he realized Eddie must have accidentally grabbed the wrong shirt in the darkness. Now he has confirmation. The dark grey fabric is hanging loose around Eddie’s comparatively narrow shoulders, and Richie smiles at the thought that Eddie might have snatched his shirt on purpose.

Richie’s no stranger to the rules and rituals of illicit encounters, but Eddie doesn’t seem like the type of guy to have much experience in this field. Richie’s already completed his residency and moved on to his fellowship, but Eddie’s probably still struggling through his gen eds.

“So what’re you up to?” Richie asks, although it’s not difficult to surmise that he’s trying to draft out a heartbreaking letter to his dearly deserted wife.

Eddie sighs right before taking a long sip from his glass of moscato. “You ever make a really fucking big mistake? The kind that’s going to leave a mess no matter how you try to clean it up?”

Richie feels his insides curdle like spoiled milk. “Wow, thanks for letting me down easy,” he tries to joke, his smile more of a grimace.

Eddie quickly shakes his head and reaches out to rest his hand on Richie’s wrist. “No, sorry, it’s not about you. You weren’t a mistake.”

Richie smiles in relief. “I’d make a joke about how my parents beg to differ, but I can’t since my mom blew a couple thousand on fertility treatments to have me.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your mom’s sex life isn’t my main focus right now.”

Eddie’s tone is sharp, prompting Richie to lean away a bit as if he were a leaky car. “Right, sorry, what’s on the agenda?”

He reaches for the wine bottle to take a swig. Eddie glares at him, but he has no right to bitch about sharing germs when they just had their tongues in certain places.

Eddie buries his face back in his hands, his shame so apparent Richie could guess it in a game of charades.

“I really fucked up,” he groans. “Like I really shat the bed.”

“Yeah, I’ve had a few of those messes. Literally and figuratively.”

“Great, glad to hear it,” Eddie counters dryly. “But seriously, you know when you’re in a position where no matter what you do someone’s going to hate you? So why even bother trying to be a nice guy about it? Sometimes you just have to rip off the bandaid, right?”

Richie nods solemnly. “Can I bet on black that we’re talking about your wife right now?”

Eddie grabs the bottle back from him to refill his glass.

“Yeah, she’s half of it.”

“Am I the other half then?”

Eddie takes a long gulp, keeping his eyes averted. “Not quite. You’re more like a third.”

Well, that certainly puts a wedge in Richie’s mental math.

“A third of what?” he asks cautiously. “Describe the pie chart in the powerpoint of your brain.”

Eddie taps his fingers against the bottle, and it suddenly occurs to Richie that he probably shouldn’t be drinking wine with so much sugar considering the clumsily patched glory hole in his face, but Eddie seems beyond the point of caring about trivial things like bacterial infections.

“There’s someone else. Besides Myra,” Eddie almost whispers, and Richie’s torn between the urge to cry and slap him on the back.

“A someone-someone?”

“Yeah, a someone. But it’s more important for them than it is for me.”

“Ouch,” Richie hisses. “I felt that. Now wait, when you say ‘them’ you don’t mean ‘them’ as in multiples, right?”

“No, it’s just this one guy.”

Richie’s moral compass is definitely busted to shit because he can’t resist smiling. Of course he feels jealousy towards this most recent development, but the idea of Eddie Kaspbrak, the boy who couldn’t get a date all through high school, cheating on his wife with two men at the same time is so salacious it should be illegal.

“And is it serious?” Richie asks.

“About as serious as it can be when I’ve only spent the night five times in six months.”

Richie’s eyes go wide. “You’ve been with this guy for six fucking months? In affair years you’re on your way to a mortgage.”

“Yeah, I know, I let it go on way too fucking long.”

Eddie stands from the bar, and Richie’s glad for it. He was gesturing so liberally Richie was worried the momentum would knock him off his stool. Eddie seems to divert his nervous energy into pacing, his hands raking through his already sex-disheveled hair.

Richie lets him work out his energy for a minute, finding it shamelessly attractive.

“And you said it’s more important for him than you, right?”

“Yeah, I think he got it in his head that I’m going to move in with him after leaving Myra.”

“And where’d he get that idea?” Richie asks before taking another swig, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Eddie stops pacing, but still won’t meet Richie’s eyes. “It might have something to do with the fact that he said he loves me.” His eyes pinch shut. “And I might have said it back.”

Richie’s whole world goes numb. “Do you?”

After a painful beat of silence, Eddie puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head no.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, you sloppy bitch,” Richie declares, slapping a hand on the bartop while smiling in relief and schadenfreude.

“Hey, I thought I might!” Eddie shouts in defense. “I’d never dated a guy before! And yeah, maybe I knew he wasn’t my soulmate, but… he’s a great fucking guy. Better than me, although that’s a pretty low bar. And I have no fucking clue what he saw in me, but I’m glad he saw something. And I know I just have to cut it off at the root, but up until a few days ago I was really considering staying with him.”

Richie takes in his cinematic monologue, feeling like he should be sitting on a casting couch. He glances at the half-empty bottle, and decides he’ll need something a lot stronger than 7% sugar water if he wants to make it through the rest of this performance. 

“Okay, so who the fuck is this guy?” he asks while standing up and walking around the bar to browse the bottles along the shelf.

Eddie sighs, hands still on his hips. “His name is Philip. Always Philip, never Phil. And uh… he works six doors down from me.”

Richie glances up from the bottle of wild turkey that caught his eye. “Jesus Christ, you work with the guy?”

“I work nine hours and commute for two! Where the fuck am I supposed to meet people outside of work?”

“The whole point of getting married is you’re supposed to stop meeting people!”

“Romantically or just in general?”

“Both!” Richie exclaims, raising his hands in exasperation. “Okay, so you work with him, he’s in love with you, any other pertinent details I should know about?” He unscrews his chosen bottle of bourbon and starts pouring himself a glass.

“Um…” Eddie drones, “he’s eleven years younger than me?”

His voice trails up at the end, as if it were a question. Richie’s already poured himself two fingers, but he takes the opportunity to add a third.

“Eddie, you gaudy slut.” He tries to restrain his smile, but fails miserably, his emotions caught somewhere between jealousy and amusement.

“I didn’t fucking card him!” Eddie shouts defensively. “He has one of those faces where he could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty.”

Richie takes a slow, pointedly non-judgmental sip of his drink. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’m over it,” he says with a wave of his hand. “So you need to break up with him, right? I’m assuming that’s the trajectory we’re on here?”

“Yeah, I think that’s the priority,” Eddie affirms with a nod. “Then I’ll have to figure out Myra.”

“Shit, you’re really racking up the body count.” Richie leans against the bar and takes another sip. “So, what’s the plan?”

Eddie sighs and walks back towards the bar, giving Richie a look that means business.

“For him, I was thinking a text.”

“A fucking text?!” Richie shouts, his overenthusiasm causing some of his drink to slosh onto his wrist.

“Should I use my work email instead?”

Richie’s jaw actually drops.

“That was a joke by the way,” Eddie follows up in a tone equally dry, and Richie’s almost disappointed. It’s not everyday you get to see your long lost childhood friend toss gasoline on a dumpster fire.

“So hypothetically, what would be the formatting of this text?”

Eddie sits back in his stool, reaching for his glass of wine. “I don’t know. Does it even matter? Literally nothing I do will make any difference. I’ll still be the asshole no matter what.”

“But do you really want to be known around the office as the guy who dumped his emotionally-invested sidepiece via text?”

Eddie slams his hand down on the bar, rattling the bottle. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t fucked your way back into my memory and reminded me what love really feels like then I wouldn’t be in this position!”

They’re leaning in close, near enough to feel each other’s breath. Richie’s eyes catch the dip of Eddie’s collarbone where his own shirt is hanging just a bit too loose. His gaze trails up Eddie’s neck and settles on his lips, which are slightly parted and still tastefully red from upstairs.

“Okay, not to shift the mood,” Richie whispers, “but you text dumping two people for me is really doing something.”

Eddie’s cheeks break into a flush and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and–

Just then they hear footsteps coming down the stairs and immediately pull away. They stare into space in opposite directions, simultaneously running their hands through their hair, the most obvious tell engrained by evolution.

Bill turns the corner a second later, dressed in sweats and his hair rumpled. “Hey, everything alright down here?” he asks, glancing between them as they awkwardly lean on the bar in ways that no normal human holds their body.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Richie says, his voice conspicuously loud. “Just came down for a nightcap.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bill replies, walking over to the bar, seemingly oblivious to their suspicious behavior. “This is all complimentary, right?” he asks, gesturing to the selection of liquor behind Richie’s back.

“Everything’s complimentary as long as you don’t get caught. Can I make you something?” Richie offers, a bit too enthusiastically, realizing too late that he sounds kind of like an NPC in a video game.

“Sure, um, do you know how to make a sazerac?” Bill asks while taking a seat by Eddie, who’s staring down at his blank lawyer’s pad in a manner not at all suspicious.

“Sure. Rye or bourbon?”

Bill looks impressed. “Um, rye, please. Did you used to bartend?”

“Nope. I’m just an alcoholic,” Richie remarks irreverently while reaching for a fresh tumbler.

An awkward beat of silence passes. Then Bill taps his knuckles on the bar.

“On that note, what’re you guys up to?”

Smooth, Billy.

“Drafting break up texts,” Richie replies candidly while reaching for the cognac, only to realize his mistake when Eddie shoots him a glare.

“Plural?” Bill glances between the two of them, and Richie bites his lip to avoid cursing under his breath.

“Um, yeah, we’re both breaking up,” Richie quickly replies, before clumsily adding, “with other people!”

Richie waits for Bill to call them out on their bullshit, but instead he turns to Eddie with genuine concern. “Eddie, are you leaving your wife?”

“Yep,” Eddie replies with a distinct pop, but before Bill has a chance to respond, Eddie turns his attention back to Richie. “And hey, who the fuck are you breaking up with?” he asks pointedly.

Richie honest to god just pulled that out of his ass as a cover, but now that he thinks about it, there is someone back in LA that he’s been clowning around with.

“Just someone I’ve been seeing,” he says with a shrug. “It’s pretty casual.”

The jealousy on Eddie’s face sure is rich considering that Richie didn’t bat an eye when Eddie confessed to being in serious relationships with two different people.

“Are you exclusive?” Eddie asks, like they’re in a fucking Friends episode.

“No, we just see each other like once a month.”

Eddie scowls. “Then it’s not a break up.”

“Can we bring this back around to you breaking up with your wife via text?” Bill interrupts, rewinding his hand in the air. “Haven’t you guys been married for like six years?”

“I’m not breaking up with her via text!” Eddie snaps. “Richie was just being a dick.”

“That sounds about right,” Bill responds dryly, and Richie mimes spitting in the drink he’s so generously making for him.

“Can I ask what brought this on?” Bill asks.

 _You just did_ , Richie resists saying.

Eddie leans forward to rest his head in his hand, letting out a dramatic sigh so heavy it’ll probably leave condensation on the bartop. “A lot of shit,” he groans. “Everything.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Bill sighs in return, matching Eddie’s melancholy pitch. Richie slides him his cocktail, which he accepts with a nod of thanks. He takes a sip, then nods a more enthusiastic thanks.

“Can I tell you guys something?” he asks as he swirls the cubes around his glass.

“You have a ghostwriter too?” Richie guesses, taking another sip of bourbon.

Bill glares at him, unamused. “If I had a fucking ghostwriter do you really think I’d hire someone who’d get me two thousand one-star reviews on Goodreads?”

Richie shrugs. “My ghostwriter got me banned from Tulsa.”

“So what’s your secret, Bill?” Eddie interjects. Richie already told him the Tulsa story, and he’s more intrigued by whatever secret golden boy Bill has up his sleeve.

Bill drums his fingers on the countertop, then takes a long, probably painful drink of his three-shot cocktail. Both Richie and Eddie watch him in anticipation.

“I sort of… cheated on Audra.”

“What?!” they shout concurrently.

“It was just a kiss, Bill! What the fuck?”

All three of them turn to see Bev standing in the doorway, wearing a grey robe over a set of satin pajamas. She has a box of cigarettes in her hand, and is glaring at Bill with palpable annoyance.

“Wait, when did this happen?” Richie asks, his gaze rapidly darting between the two of them.

“I don’t know,” Bill groans, tugging at his greying hair. “The timeline’s kind of confusing.”

“It was right before Eddie got attacked in the bathroom,” Bev replies candidly, walking over to the bar. “Seriously, it was just a couple seconds.” She takes a seat next to Bill, but makes sure to keep a solidly platonic distance, scooting her stool a couple inches away.

“But I should still tell Audra about it, right?”

“No!” all three of them shout in impressive harmony.

Richie leans over the bar. He wishes he had a dish towel to throw over his shoulder to really sell his bartender-therapist cosplay. “William, I respect your healthy communication skills, but I really don’t think a short kiss with a childhood friend in the middle of a multi-day near-death experience is something you need to make a big deal about. You’re forty; you’re allowed a microcheat once in a while.”

“What the fuck is a microcheat?” Eddie asks, noticeably put off.

“A kiss, for instance!” Richie exclaims. “Or you know, getting coffee or having a couple drinks, or if you can wrap things up in under ten minutes–”

“Fucking other people isn’t microcheating!” Eddie shouts, his hand chopping through the air.

“Wait, Bill, are you actually planning on telling her?” Bev asks in a gentler tone.

“I don’t know,” he answers with clear uncertainty. “I feel like I should.”

“Well, if you do, then do it in person,” Bev tells him, “because doing it remotely makes it seem so much worse.”

“Or hey,” Eddie interjects, his tone unabashedly sardonic, “how about this? Don’t tell her at all!”

“Yeah, because it was a microcheat,” Richie adds, right as Stan walks into the parlor.

“It’s three in the fucking morning, why are you guys awake?”

There are notable rings beneath Stan’s eyes. His hair is a mess, but his bluejay socks really tie the look together. When no one answers his question, Richie decides he’ll be the master of ceremonies and take care of the exposition.

“Bill and Bev microcheated and Eddie’s leaving his wife.” 

“Eddie’s leaving his wife?!” Bev shouts, causing Bill to choke on his drink. He coughs, slapping a hand to his chest, but no one pays him any mind.

“Wait, weren’t you here for that?” Richie asks, genuinely confused.

“No, she wasn’t,” Eddie states dryly. “We got sidetracked by this dumbass microcheating thing.”

“What the fuck is microcheating?” Stan asks, narrowing his eyes skeptically while walking towards the bar.

Richie claps his hands together, more than ready to recite some bullshit from a five-year-old set. “It’s like bumping knees under the table, or sharing a plate of fries, or flirting with your wife’s sister, or maybe–”

“Wait, did you guys sleep together?” Stan asks bluntly, ignoring Richie in favor of Bill and Bev.

“No!” Bev exclaims, clearly exasperated. “We kissed once. This is getting ridiculous.”

Stan eyes both of them for a moment, then turns back to Richie. “Hey, can you make me a drink?”

Richie smiles. “Sure, what’s your poison?”

“Do you know how to do an old fashioned?”

“Sure do. Both kinds if you feel like joining the swingers club over here.” He gestures between Bill and Bev, who glower at him like that one elderly couple that always seems to attend all his shows just to glare at him disapprovingly.

Stan blinks, clearly not following the joke.

“An old fashioned also means a hand job,” Eddie clarifies.

“Wow, it must be funny since you had to explain it,” Stan remarks, dry as the Sahara.

“Hey, by the way, Richie’s also breaking up with someone,” Bill announces before taking a smug sip of his drink.

Eddie groans. “It’s not a breakup because it’s not a real relation–”

“Yeah, I just need to dump someone I’ve been seeing casually,” Richie interrupts, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Actually, you know what, I’ll be a positive role model and set a good example. I’ll dump her first, then we can move on to Eddie.”

Richie knocks back the rest of his bourbon, slams the tumbler on the bar, then whips his phone out of his back pocket, all in one fluid motion that makes Eddie infuriatingly aroused.

Richie dramatically clears his throat as he begins typing, reading the words aloud as he goes. “‘Hey Alex, sorry I know it’s late, but I just wanted to let you know that I met someone recently and it looks like things might be getting serious.’” He discreetly side-eyes Eddie, who mouths a subtle, yet readable, ‘fuck you.’ Richie continues. “‘I’ve had a great time with you these past few months, but I think it’s time we wrapped things up. All the best, Richie.’”

“‘All the best?’” Eddie repeats incredulously. “Are you sending her a fucking email attachment?”

“Do you really think you should lie about meeting someone?” Bill asks, and Eddie stares ever more intently at his blank notepad.

Richie shrugs. “She’s a nice girl. I don’t think she’s really that into me, but I think it’d be nice to let her down easy.”

Eddie, Bev, Bill, and Stan all exchange glances like they’re a fucking Greek choir.

“I mean, I think that’s fine,” Stan finally says once it looks like no one else is going to respond. “If it wasn’t serious then a white lie like that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Exactly!” Richie concurs, satisfied with an endorsement from the current company’s only non-adulterous moral authority. “Okay… I’m gonna send it,” Richie says, holding his finger above the button, staring down at his screen. “Also, just for transparency, I lied a little: Alex is a guy.”

He presses send, feeling like he just pushed two nuclear buttons.

Eddie is giving him a look of reluctant admiration, and the other three are obviously still computing. Finally Bev gives him a big beautiful smile and reaches forward to touch Richie’s hand where he’s leaning against the bar top.

“Aw, Richie, thank you for telling us.”

“And he’s married,” Richie tacks on.

Bev’s smile falls comically fast as she swiftly pulls back her hand.

“Jesus, got a type?” Eddie mutters, taking another long sip of wine.

“Is he separated?” Bill asks, and honestly, bless him for giving Richie the benefit of the doubt.

“No,” Richie replies, taking no small joy in bursting his bubble. “And he has kids.”

At that, Stan rises from his stool with his drink and walks towards the window to stare out onto Main Street. One of Derry’s few traffic lights flashes green, completing his impression of Gatsby somberly ignoring his own party.

“You could’ve dragged the sympathy out for at least a minute,” Eddie offers.

Bill looks between the four of them, then heaves a rueful sigh. “Shit, I can’t believe all of us are having affairs.”

“We did not have an affair!” Bev snaps, then points an accusatory finger Richie’s way. “Richie, I love you, I respect you, but I hope this guy rips you a new asshole.”

“Hey, wow, the gang’s all here.”

They all quickly turn to see Ben and Mike entering the parlor, and the five of them go rigid with the obvious air of a group of people up to no good.

“What’s going on?” Ben asks, nervously chuckling as he glances around the room.

“I’m gay and Eddie’s divorcing his wife over text,” Richie announces unceremoniously.

“No, he’s not!” Bev protests, reaching forward to whack Richie’s arm. “Eddie, at the very least you need to call her.”

“You’re gay?” Ben repeats, apparently still processing the first of Richie’s statements. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, congrats, man.” Mike gives him a touching, undeserved smile.

“He had an affair with a married man with kids,” Stan states dispassionately, continuing to stare out into the lonely night.

“Oh, well…” Ben awkwardly rests his hands on his hips, clearly unsure whose side he’s supposed to be on.

“I mean, that’s… a complicated situation,” Mike offers charitably, glancing around in an attempt to read to the room.

“Okay.” Richie slams his palms on the bar top to call order to the room. “Now that we’re all here, show of hands, who thinks it’s appropriate to dump your wife of six years via text?”

Richie raises a hand in the air, amassing dirty looks from the whole room. Damn, this really is like one of his shows. After an uncomfortable amount of time, Eddie meekly raises his hand a few inches, trying to hide behind it, and everyone glares at him in disappointment.

“I need to sit down,” Stan declares, then collapses into one of the armchairs like an iron-deficient Victorian maiden.

“Okay,” Richie claps his hands. “Our other options are call, email, or in person.”

“What about a letter?” Ben suggests.

“You and your fucking letters!” Richie fires back, and Ben snaps his mouth shut.

“Eddie, you have to do it in person!” Stan shouts, clearly exasperated. Everyone rears back, surprised by his outburst. He looks like a substitute teacher who’s finally been broken after hours or days of psychological abuse. “This is your spouse! Why is this a debate?”

“Okay, wait.” Bev raises her hands like a UN peacekeeper. “I’m going to give Eddie the benefit of the doubt here. I’m not communicating with Tom at all, except through my lawyer. No calls, no texts, nothing. So I think we should hear Eddie’s side of the story before making judgments.”

Mike nods along. “Yeah, Bev’s right. There’s gotta be some nuance here. This kind of thing doesn’t just come out of nowhere.” He turns his gaze to Eddie, his expression comically sincere in comparison to Eddie’s clinical resting bitch face. “If you really feel like leaving her is the best option, then you’ve probably been debating this for a while. And these situations are always complicated, and exclusively blaming Eddie doesn’t feel fair. So theoretically, if you’re going to leave her, I think you should do what you think is best.”

Everyone in the room stares at Mike in admiration. Everyone except for Bill, who’s staring down into his empty tumbler full of melting ice.

“Wow, thanks,” Eddie replies, sincerely, if a little taken aback. “Except this isn’t exactly theoretical. Okay, yeah, I didn’t want to tell any of you guys this earlier because I was still in the high school reunion look-at-me-my-life-is-perfect mindset, but things have been really bad for a while now. Myra is… she acts just like my mom. She monitors where I go, keeps track of everything I do, guilts me over petty shit, and it’s just been red flags for six years straight. I can’t do anything without her spinning it around and making me feel like shit. And honestly, I don’t think I ever really loved her. And I don’t think she ever loved me.”

Eddie seems a bit tipsy from the half-bottle of wine he just drank, but his speech seems to have the intended effect. Everyone is looking at him with newfound sympathy, clearly feeling guilt over their previous treatment.

After a beat of silence, Richie clicks his tongue. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think she deserves a text.”

All of them slowly nod in agreement.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bev concurs. “Eddie, I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. I know you’d never deliberately hurt anyone.”

Richie has to choke back an incriminating laugh.

Ben takes a couple steps closer. “Yeah, seriously, if you need help finding a lawyer or anything we’ll do whatever we can.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions,” Stan says from his chair. “Sometimes I get caught up and forget that not all marriages are happy ones.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Okay Mr. Love Language, calm the fuck down.”

Stan flips him off, dispassionately.

“Thanks guys.” Eddie looks around the room. “I actually am freaked the fuck out. I mean, what am I supposed to say to her?”

“You could use my text,” Richie offers. “Just change the name.”

Eddie glares at him incredulously. “‘I had a great time but I think it’s time we wrapped things up?’ Yeah, perfect, her book club’s going to put a hit out on me.”

With a sigh Bill reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Okay, I’m googling ‘how to break up with your wife.’ Wait, sorry, it autofilled to ‘how to break up with your wife in Skyrim.’”

Stan looks like he’s in physical pain, not even the 38% cocktail strong enough to soothe his distress.

“Okay, here’s a generic one,” Bill announces. “‘Step one: End the relationship as soon as you know it can’t go on.’”

“Check,” Eddie calls, raising his bottle before pouring himself another glass.

“‘Step two: Break up in person.’”

“No!” Eddie brings the bottle back down onto the bar. “That article’s garbage!”

Richie whips out his own phone. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I’m googling ‘how to break up with your wife via text.’ Hey, what do you know, there’s a whole Reddit thread.”

“You’re all going to hell,” Stan intones, his eyes glazed over.

“Hey, you know what,” Bev interjects, “you don’t have to write her a lengthy explanation. She treated you terribly, there’s nothing to salvage, you don’t have to soften the blow. Just tell her you’re leaving and end it there.”

Before Richie has the opportunity to enthusiastically agree, his phone pings in his palm.

“Oh hey, it’s the guy I just broke up with. I forgot about him.”

“What’d he say?” Bill asks.

“He said, ‘no worries, we’re cool.’ Hey, that worked out,” he says with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m sure your parents are proud,” Stan adds.

“I dropped out of a STEM program to do standup and regularly make jokes about my mom’s pussy. I don’t think they’ve been proud of me since our fourth grade recorder recital.”

“Okay, here’s what I’ve got,” Eddie announces, looking down at his phone. Wow, Richie didn’t even notice he was typing. “‘Myra, I’m sorry for not giving you an explanation for disappearing the last few days, but I’ve been thinking things over, and I want to end this. I’m not happy and I don’t think you are either. You can contact me for logistical questions, but I don’t want to discuss this decision any further.’ How’s that?”

Mike nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think that’s good.”

“I like it. Nice and punchy,” Richie adds while looking around for a bottle of champagne.

“Yeah, I say send it,” Bev chimes in.

“You’re sure?” Eddie scans the room, taking in everyone’s expressions. Stan is last in the rotation. Six sets of eyes fall on him, the one hesitant juror that could endanger their consensus.

Finally, he nods. “No objections,” he says, and just like that they have a verdict.

“Okay, I’m gonna do it,” Eddie says, his thumb nearly touching the screen.

All of them watch, waiting. You could cut the tension with a butter knife. Richie is smiling manically, thrilled to watch the drama unfold with his very own eyes.

Then out of nowhere, Eddie’s phone erupts with the default marimba ringtone. It blares throughout the room, causing everyone to collectively jolt, none more so than Eddie, who borderline shrieks at his phone’s betrayal.

“It’s Myra!” he exclaims, holding his phone at arm’s length.

“Shit, everyone act natural!” Richie shouts before remembering that Myra won’t actually be able to see or hear them, but that doesn’t stop everyone in the room from shifting into a posture of awkward aloofness.

“Should I pick up?” Eddie asks, his eyes flashing in panic.

“No!” Bev shouts.

“Yes!” Richie counters.

“Why?!” Eddie yells in confusion.

“Drama!” That’s Richie’s only answer.

In a flurry Eddie presses the green button, and the whole room goes silent. Eddie presses the phone to his ear.

“Hi, honey,” he says, his voice an octave too high. A second later he pulls the phone away from his ear as audible screaming emerges from the speaker, so loud that everyone in the room can hear it, even if they can’t make out the words.

‘Speakerphone,’ Richie mouths as clear as he can. ‘Speakerphone.’

Apparently Eddie’s raw nerves are confused enough that he presses the speakerphone button against his better judgment, and a second later the regret manifests across his face.

_“Don’t you try to deny it! I’ve been suspicious about you for months now! I should have trusted my instincts, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it’s clear now you don’t deserve it! Remember that conference in Newport last month? Well, I looked it up and there was no conference, Eddie! And when I went to visit my sister in July I watched the security footage and you took the car and disappeared for the entire weekend! Where were you? Can you answer that? I can only assume you’re with whoever you’ve been spending all your ‘late nights at the office’ with. By the way, I called your boss, and he said it’ll be a cold day in hell before you leave your desk a second past five. So I can only assume you’re currently shacking up with whatever skank has caught your attention. Well, I’m sick of it! I won’t let you humiliate me like this! Don’t you dare come back! You’ll hear from my lawyer. Goodbye.”_

The call ends. Eddie is staring at his phone as if it just personally pushed him in front of a moving train. Everyone’s jaw is hanging open. Everyone except for Richie, who is smiling so wildly he feels like he should get an audition for the Joker.

Finally, Stan musters up enough courage to break the silence. “Eddie, are you having an affair?”

Six sets of eyes bore into him. There’s nowhere to hide. He’s standing on the chopping block, his executioners staring him down.

“… Yeah,” he answers meekly, probably wishing he’d chosen something stronger than that bottle of moscato.

Stan rises from the comfort of his armchair in a zombie-like trance and practically limps back towards the window to contemplate the outside world. His forehead thumps against the glass in defeat.

“Okay, listen, before you all judge me,” Eddie says, holding out his arms to keep the circling wolves at bay, “yes, I am seeing someone else, but it’s a guy. I’m gay.”

Richie eagerly takes in everyone’s expressions, watching them shift comically from disdain to confused sympathy. 

Eddie sighs, then continues, rubbing his temples while he explains. “I’ve been planning to leave her for months anyway, but I was still working through some shit. And she’s terrible! I could write you a whole fucking book about all the ways she’s messed with me. I was just so scared about leaving her. I’m sorry.”

Richie has to give him credit, the misty eyes are a nice touch. And his plea for mercy seems to successfully persuade the rest of the room.

“So, this guy you’re seeing, is he nice?” Mike asks, seeming to extend an olive branch.

“Yeah, he’s really nice. He’s fucking amazing. He’s everything she isn’t, and he’s been so understanding. I can’t think of a single thing wrong with him.”

Richie’s initial impulse is to feel jealous, but then he realizes that Eddie isn’t speaking in a tone of admiration, but frustration. He’s dumping his perfect not-yet-thirty model citizen sidepiece all for Richie Tozier, the guy who Eddie watched vomit after trying to burp the alphabet in fifth grade, and he only made it to the letter H.

The rest of the group doesn’t seem to pick up on the undercurrent of frustration in Eddie’s tone, and they all shower him with sympathetic doe eyes.

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough time,” Bev says gently, “and I’m glad you’re finally getting out of it. And you have someone who’s right for you and will look out for you.”

Richie stares at Eddie, curious how he’s going to play his hand. The suspense is torture.

“Um, actually,” Eddie starts, his voice cracking with tension. Richie leans forward in anticipation. “I need your guys’ help with something else. I sort of… need to break up with the guy too.”

All of them either raise or clench their eyebrows in confusion.

“Wait, why?” Bev asks.

“It’s complicated,” Eddie starts. “He’s in love with me, but I’m not in love with him. I thought I could love him. I really wanted to, but it’s not gonna happen. And it’s not fair to keep stringing him along.”

“Fuck, dude, that’s rough,” Richie chimes in, not even trying to feign ignorance. “Why don’t you just recycle the text you wrote for Myra?”

Eddie glares at him anew. “‘You can contact me for logistical questions, but I don’t want to discuss this decision any further?’ Perfect, why don’t I just write the Am I the Asshole thread myself?”

“Not that I have any moral authority here,” Bill interjects, looking slightly more relaxed after polishing off his drink, “but if this guy’s as cool as you say, then you should probably do it in person.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees with a nod, “I mean, he didn’t do anything wrong here. It’s basic decency to give him the time, right?”

“Hm,” Eddie hums, tapping his fingernails against the phone screen. “Or… I could text him.”

Richie’s smile is borderline evil. “Yes, you could.”

“Or, you could not,” Stan follows, glaring at him from the window.

“Yeah, Eddie, if he’s in love with you then I really think you should tell him in person,” Bev says, although she seems resigned to the fact that Eddie might just be a lost cause.

“Yeah,” Ben agrees, “breakups are rough, even when it’s no one’s fault. But you have to give each other respect where it’s deserved.”

“You guys sound just like the therapist I used to fuck,” Richie remarks while pouring himself another glass of bourbon.

“Richie, why are you enabling him?” Bev asks, clearly exasperated.

“Hey, they’ve only spent the night five times over six months! It’s not like they’re shopping at Ikea and picking out baby names!”

“Wait, did you already know about this?” Mike asks, causing Richie to cringe as he realizes he just blew his cover.

“Wait, one second,” Stan speaks up, raising a hand to call attention. His eyes dart between Richie and Eddie, almost squinting. “So, both of you are gay?”

They both exchange a glance, mutually wondering what they’re supposed to say to that.

“Yeah, I guess,” Richie answers skeptically. “I mean, they say one in every three people–”

“No they fucking don’t,” Eddie interrupts.

“Eddie, are you wearing Richie’s shirt?” Stan asks, the question sharp as a bullet, piercing through both their chests and shattering the mirror behind the bar.

The cocky smirk that Richie’s been wearing all night falls away. Eddie goes stone-still. Richie’s too scared to look around the room, sensing there’s a bloodbath lurking just outside his periphery.

Bev is the one to break the silence. “Eddie, you’re leaving your wife for _Richie?_ ”

“Was the inflection really necessary?” Richie asks, just enough shame left to feel offended.

“You’re leaving your _sidepiece_ for Richie?” Bill follows up.

“Did you know his sidepiece is twenty-nine?” Richie tosses in, shamelessly fanning the flames in Eddie’s direction.

“Oh, wow,” Mike says, turning his head towards the wall, too scared to watch the events unfolding.

“And they work together!” Richie adds, and Eddie looks ready to tackle him like a secret service agent.

“Okay, Eddie, that’s it, you need to tell him in person,” Bev commands, pointing an accusatory finger his way.

“And tell him you cheated on him!” Stan adds.

“Microcheat?” Richie asks innocently.

“This is not a fucking microcheat, Richie!” Stan shouts, drawing closer.

“It’s a microcheat as long as there’s no penetration!”

Before anyone has a chance to react, Eddie’s phone lets out a ping.

All of their heads snap towards his phone. Eddie’s the last one to nervously glance down at his screen.

“It’s Philip,” he says, mortified.

“Who’s Philip?” Bill asks.

“The sidepiece. What’s it say?” Richie demands.

Eddie clears his throat and starts reading. “‘Hi Eddie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s eating away at me, and I need to be honest. I’m sorry it’s so late, and I know you’re probably in a bad place right now with your grandma’s funeral–’”

“You gave an excuse to your sidepiece but not your wife!” Stan exclaims, only to be shushed by everyone in the room.

Eddie continues: “‘An ex of mine came into town yesterday and asked if I wanted to get drinks, and I’m so sorry, but I ended up going home with him. I thought I might still have feelings, but I don’t, and I’m so sorry. I know nothing I can say will make this any better. I love you, and I understand if you need some time apart after this. I’ll respect your decision and do whatever is best for you.’”

The room is silent. Everyone’s furtively glancing at each other, trying to figure out how they should react. Bill sips the diluted remains of his drink. Stan looks like he needs a fainting couch. Mike’s holding a fist to his chin, frozen like a piece of statuary. Ben’s contemplating the architecture of the ceiling, and Bev looks like a widow who just buried her fourth husband and is kind of over it at this point. Richie’s the only one smiling uncontrollably.

“So… what’s the consensus?” Eddie asks casually, as if they were on the Derry High debate team.

“You need to tell him,” Bev says, although she’s clearly resigned herself to the fact that she has no power.

“Or I could just…” Eddie raises his phone again and begins typing. “‘I understand, but this really hurt me, and I need some time on my own to think things over. I think I’ll stay up here in Maine for a while to spend time with family and friends. I wish you the best, and I’m glad I got to know you.’”

Everyone in the room looks mortified, their expressions growing more aghast the longer Eddie types. Everyone except for Richie, who has to cover his mouth to hide his indecent smirk.

“Eddie, you can’t send that,” Ben says as a final plea.

“He sent it,” Richie announces, peering over Eddie’s shoulder to see the blue text bubble already on his screen. 

Everyone seems to crumple internally, like Eddie just personally shattered their faith in humanity.

After maybe twenty seconds of discordant silence, Eddie raises his hands in defense. “Hey, is this really any worse than saying I was never in love with him and I’m leaving him for someone else?”

“You’re a sociopath,” Stan states neutrally, as if it were an objective fact.

“You guys are unbelievable,” Bev says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with unsteady hands.

“Yeah, that was… really not cool.” Ben slowly shakes his head.

“Thanks for the input, guys,” Eddie replies sarcastically, unaffected by their disdain. “Glad we wrapped this up. Richie, upstairs?”

Richie downs the last of his bourbon in one gulp. “Yep,” he answers with a smile.

“No, wait.” Bev moves to physically block their path. “Listen, I get it. We’re reunited, we’re happy to be alive, we’re remembering a lot of confusing things and reassessing our lives, but that’s no excuse to treat people outside of this town like trash.”

“Yeah, is this how you guys treat all your relationships?” Ben asks incredulously.

“Do I look like the kind of guy who has ‘relationships?’” Richie retorts, the scare quotes implicit in his tone.

“Hey, listen,” Eddie starts, “I’m a fucking asshole. I work on Wall Street and screw people out of their insurance. I’m going to hell anyway, so yeah, I cheated on my emotionally-invested sidepiece and let him take the blame for our breakup. What do you want from me?”

Before anyone has a chance to rip him to shreds, Stan shoots up from his armchair.

“Hey, wait, wait, wait.” He waves his hands in the air frantically. “Mike, why are you here? Didn’t you go back to the library?”

Everyone’s eyes snap in Mike’s direction. Everyone except Bill’s. That’s right, Mike did say he was heading back. He doesn’t have a room at the Inn. He lives in town, after all. But now that they think about it, no one saw him leave last night.

“I, uh.” He swallows. A cartoonish bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. “Decided to spend the night.”

“Where?” Stan asks, his tone unforgiving.

Mike gulps. “Um, upstairs?”

Suddenly everything seems to click into place. Their eyes dart to Bill, who is clutching his glass tight and looks like a man who just became self-aware of the fact that he’s the protagonist of a middle-life crisis memoir.

Bill guiltily keeps his head down, and practically whispers under his breath. “… It was a microcheat?”

As the room erupts into fresh indignation, Richie and Eddie make their escape upstairs, being sure to grab the bottle of champagne along the way.


End file.
